


Right Where I Belong

by flawedamythyst



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s04e17 It's a Terrible Life, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-22
Updated: 2009-06-22
Packaged: 2018-10-16 02:35:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10561972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: “Hey,” replied Dean. “So, I changed my mind about the ghost-hunting thing.”AU ending for It's A Terrible Life.





	

“This...this isn't who I'm supposed to be,” said Dean, hoping he didn't sound like an idiot. As soon as he said it, he realised just how true it was – this life just wasn't working for him. He was meant to be elsewhere, doing something that would just click into place for him.

Mr Adler, far from looking confused or angry about Dean's decision, smiled like a shark. “Dean, Dean, Dean,” he said in expansive tones. “Finally.”

All the hairs stood up on the back of Dean's neck, and all the instincts that had prompted him to grab the wrench to attack the ghost suddenly started yelling that something was horribly wrong. Mr Adler reached out for his forehead, but Dean was already moving, pushing his chair back and away from his hand before he could touch him.

 _It's not really him_ , hissed a voice in the back of Dean's mind, and he jumped up, out of his chair.

“Dean,” said Mr Adler with a frown, coming towards him again, “Calm down.”

Dean grabbed desperately at one of the executive toys on the desk and threw it at boss's face, then ducked round the desk, snatched up his briefcase, and took off out of his office.

There was a gaggle of junior executives gathered around the water-cooler, and he yelled, “Tell management I quit,” at them as he passed by. The elevator was open and waiting, and he jumped straight in, just as Mr Adler – or whatever it was controlling him - came out of his office, frowning slightly with annoyance. Dean pressed hard at the parking lot button.

“Dean,” called out Mr Adler, “You're making a mistake.”

Dean punched the button a few more times, wondering if he should have taken the stairs instead. The doors slid shut before Mr Adler could get there, and Dean let out a sigh of relief. He watched the numbers count down anxiously, wondering how to explain this if Security was waiting for him at the bottom. When the numbers stopped on a random floor instead of going all the way down, he groaned out loud.

The doors opened, and Sam was outside. They stared at each other for a long moment, and Dean was reminded of all the other times he'd found himself just staring dumbly at Sam.

“Uh, hey,” said Sam, sounding surprised.

“Hey,” replied Dean. “So, I changed my mind about the ghost-hunting thing.”

Sam's face lit up, and Dean wondered how anyone over the age of six could look so damned good with dimples. “Yeah?” said Sam. “Cool.”

The doors started to slide shut, and Dean stuck his hand out to stop them. “You coming?” he asked, just as an angry bellow that might have been Sam's name echoed down the corridor.

“Definitely,” said Sam quickly, darting into the elevator. He hit the parking lot button several times, and the doors slid shut again.

There was a slightly awkward silence where they both just looked at each other, and Dean remembered the first time they'd met, when Sam had just been staring at him in this same elevator. The difference this time was that he didn't have to worry about getting a reputation for being a fag at his new job, and so was free to look back and smile.

It was a couple of moments before he realised that Sam was holding a crowbar. “What's that for?” he asked.

Sam glanced down at it, then looked sheepish. “I uh, took out my phone,” he said. “It was really fucking annoying.”

Dean laughed. “I threw an executive toy at my boss,” he admitted, then frowned. “Well, he might not have been my boss. Do you think people can get possessed?” he asked, feeling like an idiot.

Sam's eyebrows shot up. “Like The Exorcist? Demons?” he asked.

“There was something not right about him,” said Dean, trying to remember exactly what it was he'd sensed.

The elevator doors chose that moment to open at the parking lot level, and Mr Adler was outside, waiting for them.

“Dean, Dean,” he said, not at all sounding like someone who'd somehow just made it down fifteen flights of stairs faster than an elevator. “There's no need for all this.”

Dean tightened his grip on his briefcase, and noticed Sam hefting the crowbar out of the corner of his eye.

“There's no need for you to get involved, Sam,” said Mr Adler.

“How did you know my name?” asked Sam, sounding freaked out and not lowering the crowbar. Dean glanced at him quickly, meeting his eyes, and saw that they were on the same page about getting the hell away from this guy.

Mr Adler smiled his scary-ass smile again. “I know more about you than you do,” he said ominously, then turned to Dean. “I know you're confused right now, but I can help.”

“I don't need your help,” said Dean firmly. “We're just going to walk to my car, and you're going to let us.”

Mr Adler didn't stop smiling. “I don't think so,” he said, and Dean didn't wait to hear what came next.

“Now,” he yelled at Sam, hoping he'd understand, and threw his briefcase at Mr Adler then took off, Sam one step behind him. Mr Adler batted the briefcase aside as if it was a feather, rather than a top-of-the-range, steel reinforced, handmade leather attache case, and gave a little sigh, as if this whole thing was nothing more than a minor annoyance. Dean and Sam ran down the rows of cars, darting left then right.

“This really isn't necessary,” said Mr Adler, still sounding amused, and came after them.

“We need to split up,” said Sam.

“No way,” said Dean. “Have you never seen a horror film? Splitting up is the worst idea.”

Sam ignored him. “I'll distract him,” he said. “You find a car.”

He stopped running and turned around, raising the crowbar up. Dean stopped as well, not sure what to do.

“Sam,” he protested.

Sam glared at him. “Go!” he commanded, and Dean found his feet moving again.

He dashed left between two massive SUVs, then ducked behind a concrete pillar, thinking hard.

“That won't do anything to hurt me,” he heard Mr Adler say to Sam.

“And yet you're staying back,” replied Sam, sounding shaky but resolute.

Dean's car was all the way over the other side of the parking lot. There was no way Sam would be able to hold back this guy for long enough for Dean to get over to it and drive back. He looked frantically around at the cars nearby, wondering if it was worth trying doors in case any were unlocked. He'd never stolen so much as candy before, but somehow all considerations of right and wrong disappeared when it came to getting Sam the hell away from danger.

“I don't want to attack anyone,” said Mr Adler. “If you'll just let me touch Dean, you'll understand that.”

The car behind Dean was some big, black beast of a classic. He stared at it for a long moment, and realised that he knew exactly how to jimmy the door open and hotwire it. The sudden realisation of knowledge that he really shouldn't have left him reeling, feeling disorientated.

“You're not laying a hand on him,” growled Sam, and Dean pulled himself together and started working on the car door.

“Stand aside,” said Mr Adler, starting to sound more annoyed than amused. “I'm not meant to hurt you, but I'm sure it would be understood if I had to.”

The door came open as easily as Dean had known it would. He slid into the driver's seat and pulled the wires out of the starting motor, his hands shaking with adrenalin. He had to do this quickly – Sam was counting on him.

“Come on then,” said Sam, just as the engine caught. The sudden roar of it distracted both Sam and Mr Adler from their showdown, and Dean put his foot down on the gas, pulling out fast and making Mr Adler jump out of the way.

“Come on!” he yelled to Sam, screeching to a halt beside him. Sam threw himself into the passenger side and Dean took off as fast as he could, before Mr Adler could recover.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” said Dean as they headed out into the mid-afternoon city traffic. “What the hell was that all about?”

Sam shook his head in bewilderment. “You really think he was possessed?”

“There was something not right about him,” said Dean firmly. “I mean – he said he wanted to touch me. That's freaking weird.”

“Oh yeah,” said Sam dryly. “Can't imagine anyone wanting to touch you.”

Dean shot a quick glance at him, but Sam was busy looking out his window, and all he could see was the back of his head. The part of his mind that always kept track of these things, the one that he'd been ruthlessly ignoring for ages, started pointing out just how easy it would be to get laid right now, especially with the adrenalin pumping through both of them. After all, he didn't have to worry about his reputation any more.

Instead of saying anything, he clenched his hands tighter on the wheel and pushed the gas down a bit harder. If they were going to be hunting ghosts together – and wow, that sounded so stupid, even in his head – then maybe he should think twice before jumping Sam's bones.

There were a couple of moments of slightly awkward silence, then Sam said, “This is a pretty cool car. You've a lot better taste in stolen cars than in ones you've paid for.”

Dean bridled at the implied insult to his Prius. “I hate to think what kind of fuel economy this thing gets,” he bitched, then couldn't help adding. “It's pretty fun to drive, though.”

Sam laughed and Dean grinned, wondering how it could be so easy to grin when they were on the run from some kind of supernatural creature hell-bent on doing something nasty to them. Somehow, just being in a car with Sam was making him feel more relaxed than he could remember being.

“Where are we going, anyway?” asked Sam, and Dean dragged his eyes back to the road. He'd been driving home, almost on autopilot.

“My place,” he said.

Sam frowned. “Won't that be the first place that guy looks for you?”

“I'll just grab some stuff, then we'll head somewhere else,” said Dean.

Sam shook his head firmly. “It's too dangerous,” he announced.

“Oh, but I bet your place is just fine,” retorted Dean. Christ, he wasn't even allowed a change of clothes?

Sam hesitated for a moment, then reluctantly said, “No, he knew who I was as well. We should just leave town.”

Dean gaped at him. “Leave all our stuff – our apartments, everything, just like that? Our whole lives?”

“Yeah,” said Sam with a decisive nod. “We don't know who's after us, or why. We need to get the hell away from here, hole up somewhere, then work out a plan of action.”

“And buy some clothes,” muttered Dean. “This is ridiculous.” But he was already signalling to change lanes, heading for the interstate instead of his apartment block. Sam was probably right about Mr Adler checking their apartments, and he had a sudden, itchy feeling, as if he just wanted to drive and drive until there was a whole new horizon.

“You've got your snazzy suspenders,” said Sam with a grin. “What more could you want?”

Dean glared at him.

 

****

 

An hour later, they were out of the city and flying free along the highway, heading west. Dean was really enjoying driving the car now, environmental impact be damned, but Sam had been getting increasingly bored and fidgety for the last half an hour. He was drumming his fingers on his knees and watching the mile markers pass with a little frown. Not that Dean was watching him or anything, he was just hard to ignore, all huge and muscled and right up close to Dean on the bench seat.

Sam let out an irritated huff of air, then reached out and flicked the radio on. There was already a tape in it, and a blast of guitars came out.

“Jesus,” said Dean in surprise. It sounded like Metallica, or AC/DC, or one of those other bands that had more hair than musical ability. Sam grinned at him and turned it down, but not off.

“Can't we have the radio or something?” asked Dean.

“Nope,” said Sam, still smiling. “You get to drive the cool car, then I get to pick the music.” Dean sighed, but he couldn't deny the fairness of that.

“Besides,” said Sam as the song went into a frantic guitar solo, “don't you think it fits the car?”

“Maybe we should get leather jackets as well,” grumbled Dean, “And just live the whole cliché.”

Sam gave Dean's clothes a careful look. “Not sure even you could pull off a leather jacket with that shirt and those suspenders,” he said.

Dean ignored the way Sam's gaze made his skin itch. “What is your obsession with my suspenders?” he asked.

“Nothing,” said Sam innocently, then reached out and pinged one of them against Dean's shoulder.

“Don't do that,” growled Dean.

“Why not?” asked Sam, doing again with slightly more force.

“Because if you do, I'll mess with your hair,” said Dean, and Sam's hand halted in the process of doing it again, and then withdrew.

“Low blow, man,” muttered Sam. Dean smirked with satisfaction.

 

****

 

They stopped for coffee a few hours later, by which time they'd had both sides of the tape in the deck, and moved on to working through the box of Metal's Greatest Mullets which Sam had found under his seat. Dean was starting to enjoy it, but he was damned if he was going to tell Sam that.

Sam stretched as soon as he got out of the car, and Dean found himself staring at the strip of skin where his shirt rode up. He looked up to realise Sam was giving him a knowing smile.

Dean cleared his throat and looked over at the shabby roadside diner. “Man, they better have lattes,” he said.

Sam laughed. “I'm not sure this is that kind of place.”

Dean made a face, and they went inside.

“I'll have a grande, soy, half-caf, sugar-free vanilla latte, with no whip and extra hot,” he said to the waitress.

She stared at him for a long moment. “We've got coffee,” she said eventually. “Or we've got coffee. Which do you want?”

“Uh, coffee's fine,” said Sam, grabbing Dean's arm before he could protest and ask what kind of place this was, and bundled him over to a table. “Way to keep a low profile,” he hissed.

Dean looked down at his blue-and-white striped shirt and checked tie, and then over at Sam's bright yellow polo shirt before letting his eyes travel around the truckers and other itinerant types that made up the rest of the diner's clientèle. “I don't think we're exactly going to blend in whatever we do,” he said.

The waitress, whose nametag read Brenda, brought over a couple of menus with their coffee. “You boys wanting food?” she asked, sounding as if she was hoping they'd say no.

Dean hadn't been called a boy in years, but Sam took it in his stride. “That'd be great,” he said with a warm smile that made Brenda thaw almost visibly. “Anything you'd recommend?”

Brenda tapped her pad with her pen. “Hank does a pretty mean burger,” she said.

“Sounds great,” said Sam with a big grin.

Dean hesitated. “You got anything that's no-carb?” he asked.

Sam kicked him under the table. “We'll both have burgers,” he told Brenda, and Dean sighed, mentally giving up his detox.

“Okay,” said Brenda, giving Dean a hard look before she disappeared into the kitchen.

Sam shook his head. “What've you got against carbohydrates anyway?” he asked.

Dean shrugged. “Just trying to lose a little weight.”

Sam gave Dean a slow look over the table that made Dean's skin heat up. “You don't need to lose any weight,” he said, and Dean had to look away and clear his throat to avoid blushing like a school kid at the gravelly tone of Sam's voice.

 

****

 

The burger that Brenda bought out was awesome. Dean enjoyed every moment of it, once he'd managed to shut off the part of his mind that was hysterically babbling about saturated fats, and he somehow lost track of everything else.

“Wow,” said Sam after Dean had polished off the last crumb and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Don't think I've ever seen anyone enjoy their food like that.”

Dean shrugged a shoulder, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “I've been on that detox crap all week,” he said. Sam's plate was still half-full. “You gonna eat those fries?” he asked, already reaching out for them.

Sam pushed the plate towards him. “Go ahead,” he said. “I'd hate to get between you and the pursuit of pleasure.”

Dean grinned at him and tucked in.

 

****

 

Dean walked out to the car with that pleasantly full feeling that means you've eaten slightly too much of something that's incredibly bad for you. He wondered why he'd thought detox was a good idea in the first place when food was just so awesome.

When they got to the car, Dean headed round to the driver's side, but Sam blocked him off. He pushed him against the car and kissed him before Dean had time to protest, his lips pressed softly against Dean's for several heart-stoppingly long moments before he moved back.

“Thought we should get that out of the way before the tension got really ridiculous,” he said.

Dean gaped at him for a second, then grabbed the back of his head and pulled him down for a proper kiss. His hand tangled in the soft hair at the back of Sam's head, and he could taste coffee on Sam's tongue. It felt right in a way that none of his other kisses ever had, as if he and Sam were two pieces of the same puzzle, destined to slot together neatly. He wondered how he could feel so connected to someone who he'd only known for a couple of days.

Sam was grinning widely enough to light up the darkening evening sky when he pulled back.

“My turn to drive,” he said, and went for the driver-side door. Dean let him, content for now to just collapse into the passenger seat and try to sort out in his head everything that had happened in the last few hours. Leaving his job, his apartment, everything he had and taking off in a stolen car with a guy he barely knew would have seemed like a completely ridiculous thing to do only a month ago. Somehow though, now he was here, he couldn't imagine being anywhere else.

He let himself doze off to the sound of rock music and when he woke up, it was pitch black outside, and they were driving through a pine forest.

Sam glanced at him as he straightened up. “I'm thinking of stopping for the night soon,” he said. “Think we're far enough away?”

Dean looked out at the dark trees passing them by. “No idea,” he said. “We don't even know what that was – who knows how it can track us?”

Sam nodded, then made a face. “How much cash have you got on you? It's probably not a good idea to use cards.”

Dean groaned. “Oh man,” he said miserably. “I've probably only got a hundred or so. No way are we going to find somewhere decent to stay for that.”

“I reckon I've got forty or fifty,” said Sam. “We should be able to find a motel or something.”

“A motel,” repeated Dean glumly. The last time he'd stayed in a hotel, it'd been a four-star Hilton, and he'd had a suite. “This whole thing sucks,” he grumbled.

 

****

The motel they pulled up at an hour later didn't look as if it'd seen better days; it looked like better days were an urban legend it didn't believe in. It was called 'The Oak Leaf Motel', but most of the letters has long since disappeared from the sign, leaving only 'Th O k af Mote'. Dean stared at it miserably, noting the peeling paint on the facade and the way the drainpipe was hanging off the side of the building at an angle. If that was what the outside looked like, he dreaded to think what the beds were like.

“This looks like the kind of place that a psycho would own in order to lure victims in,” he said.

“Good thing we're hardcore ghost killers then,” said Sam cheerfully. “He won't be expecting that.”

Dean shot him a dark look that was ignored.

They both went to check in – Dean wanted to get a clear look at the clerk's face so that he could describe him to the police later.

“We'd like a room, please,” said Sam politely to the elderly man who was behind the desk. He seemed to have taken Dean's attitude as a challenge, and was attempting to combat it with unrelenting happiness.

“King or two queens?” asked the man, eyeing them suspiciously.

“Whichever's cheapest,” said Sam, before Dean could speak.

The man made a put-out grunting noise, and handed Sam a scrap of paper. “Fill that out,” he said.

Dean glanced around at the damp-stained walls. “There's no rats, right?” he asked. He hated rats.

The old man glared at him, and Sam trod hard on Dean's toe. “He's just kidding,” he said hastily, handing the paper back. “This looks like a great place.”

The man eyed the paper for several long minutes, clearly searching for a reason to get rid of them. “Forty bucks,” he demanded, then fixed his gaze on Dean. “In advance.”

Sam kicked Dean again, and he reluctantly pulled out his wallet and handed the money over, trying not to touch the man as he did so.

“Room Fifteen,” said the guy after he'd counted the money twice, and he put a key heavily down on the desk. “Check out by noon.” He grinned at Dean, revealing crooked teeth. “If the rats haven't eaten you.”

“Great, thanks,” said Sam quickly, grabbing the key and flashing his dimples. He grabbed Dean's jacket and hustled him out of the office.

“If he does try to kill us,” said Sam as soon as they were outside. “It'll totally be your fault.”

“He's going to send his rats after us,” said Dean gloomily. “Or maybe he has roaches. Or both – he's probably bred the two to create an evil mutant army.”

“An army bred with a single purpose,” added Sam. “To rid the world of yuppies.”

 

****

 

Room Fifteen was decorated entirely with oak leaves in what was probably meant to be an autumnal red, but just reminded Dean strongly of dried blood. He was distracted from his mental images of the old man stencilling them on the wall with the blood of his victims by Sam saying, “Huh. Guess a king is cheaper.”

Dean turned away from the walls to stare at the one bed in the centre of the room. “Good thing we got over the awkward tension earlier, then,” he said.

Sam made an amused noise. “That didn't get rid of all of it,” he said, stepping up close and crowding Dean back against the wall. “Think it might take more than one kiss.”

Dean's mouth suddenly felt very dry. “Yeah?” he asked hoarsely. “Maybe we should get right on that then.”

Sam grinned at him for a split second, then kissed him hard, taking a firm hold on either side of Dean's face with his hands and rubbing his thumbs over Dean's cheekbones. Dean crossed his arms around Sam's shoulders and held on tight, pulling him even closer, until his back was pressed hard against the wall and the long lines of Sam's body were flush with his front.

Sam rocked his thigh between Dean's legs and Dean found himself rubbing down against it almost mindlessly, all his carefully built up poise and control torn away in just one kiss from Sam. What was it about this guy that shot through all his defences so easily?

“I think,” said Sam in a low voice, pulling away from Dean's mouth just far enough to be able to speak, “that the main cause of the tension is these.” He pinged one of Dean's suspenders again.

“Guess you should take them off for me then,” said Dean, wishing he sounded less breathless.

Sam grinned and kissed him again, sliding the suspenders off Dean's shoulders as he did so. Dean pulled his arms out of them, then reached out for Sam's waist, running his hands up inside Sam's shirt, feeling the hard lines of his stomach. Sam was a lot more toned than he'd have expected from an IT guy, and he tugged up at the hem of Sam's shirt, pulling it up and over Sam's head so that he could have a proper look. Sam swayed back slightly to get rid of it, and Dean took the chance to run his hand over the sharp lines of his abs.

Sam sucked in a tight breath and kissed Dean again, pulling him close. Dean let the kissing go on for a few minutes longer, content to just stay wrapped tightly around Sam while his hands roved all over the warm, smooth skin of Sam's back.

When he eventually managed to push Sam away, Sam made a tiny grunt of disapproval which made Dean smile. “Bed,” he suggested, and Sam's face lit up.

“Yeah,” he breathed, stepping away.

They both managed to lose their shoes and socks on the way over to the bed, and Dean started on undoing his shirt buttons.

“No, wait,” said Sam, grabbing his hands. “Let me.”

Dean let go, bemused, and Sam grinned at him, carefully undoing the remaining buttons as if he was unwrapping a present. When Dean's shirt was hanging open, he ran one hand down the front of Dean's body, calloused fingers making Dean shiver with anticipation. Sam pushed the shirt off, letting it fall to the floor, before sitting down on the bed behind him.

“Want to blow you,” he said, taking hold of Dean's hips and looking up at him through his hair with eyes that Dean would pretty much promise anything to.

“Christ,” he said. “Yeah.”

Sam grinned again – it seemed like his cheeks had been dimpled since the first kiss – and opened up Dean's pants, pushing them and his boxers down his thighs. Dean kicked them away, eyes fixed hard on Sam's mouth, which was hovering so close to his cock that he could feel Sam's breath. Sam glanced up at him, then smirked and turned his head to suck a dark red mark into Dean's hip. Dean couldn't hold back the groan of frustration and lust at the feel of Sam's mouth, so hot and wet and in the wrong place.

“Come on,” he gritted out, and Sam laughed quietly against his skin, then finally turned his attention back to Dean's cock, sucking gently on the head before taking more into his mouth. Dean heard himself make a noise that sounded as if it had come straight from the soundtrack of a porn movie, but he couldn't really bring himself to care, not when Sam's mouth was so perfectly wrapped around him, tongue pressing in all the right places.

“God, so good,” he choked out. “Should have done this before. Should have done it in the elevator that first day, fuck the rest of the bullshit, just this, should have just done this...”

He brushed his fingers through Sam's hair, not wanting to hold on too tight, but unable to stop himself tangling his hands in the floppy mess of it. Sam moaned around his cock, and the vibrations made Dean's hips thrust forward, further into Sam's mouth.

“Fuck, sorry,” he muttered, but Sam just clutched harder at his hips and pulled him further in, opening up his throat and letting Dean sink so far inside that he almost certainly couldn't breathe.

When Sam pulled back, several brain-numbing and scorching hot minutes later, his face was flushed and his lips were red and bruised-looking.

“I really want to fuck you,” he said as if it was a confession of his darkest secret.

“Jesus,” managed Dean, trying to to get his breath back. “Yes.” He let his hand slide down from Sam's hair to his shoulder, holding on tightly to stop himself just collapsing down on to Sam. His thumb circled a patch of skin just above Sam's heart, crossing over the line of his collarbone.

Sam looked up at him, hands still clinging tightly to Dean's hips. “I don't have any stuff,” he said. “You got anything?”

Dean's mind immediately flew to the camomile hand lotion he kept in his briefcase, then he remembered throwing it at the thing possessing Mr Adler and driving away in a hurry, leaving it on the parking lot floor.

“Shit,” he said, and Sam's mouth quirked unhappily.

“Guess we'll have to save that till next time,” he said.

“Maybe there's something in the bathroom?” Dean suggested, his brain cells starting to recover from the highly distracting effects of Sam's mouth.

Sam raised an eyebrow. “You really want to put anything that guy provides up your ass?”

Dean made a face at the thought, his brain flashing through all the horrifying things that a psycho might find it funny to put in complimentary toiletries. “Guess not,” he said, and let himself go down onto his knees in front of Sam. “We'll just have to make do without,” he said, hands going to Sam's pants so that he could finally get Sam naked. “Improvise.”

Sam grinned. “That sounds like it could be fun,” he said, helping Dean pull his pants and boxers off and then moving back, further up the bed. “Come on,” he said, holding out a hand to Dean.

Dean followed, plastering his body over Sam's and enjoying the feel of their naked warm skin pressed together all the way down. Naked, Sam was even hotter than Dean had imagined – all smooth bronzed skin and long, muscled limbs. He kissed him, trying to pass on some of the heat that was running through him.

Sam opened up beneath him, moaning, then wrapped his legs around Dean's and flipped them over so that he was on top. Dean let him, figuring that Sam's alpha-male toppiness was something they could deal with later. Much later, if Sam just kept moving like he was, lining their cocks up so that when he thrust down it created all kinds of awesome friction.

“Next time,” Sam said in a rough, breathless voice, “I'm gonna open you up real slow, fuck you with just my fingers until you're begging for my cock.” He shifted his angle slightly, and Dean couldn't stop himself from groaning. “But I'm not gonna give it to you then,” continued Sam, right into Dean's ear. “First I'm going to lick you, push into you with my tongue.” He paused to suck hard at the skin of Dean's neck, and Dean had to bite back a swear word at the feel of Sam's mouth and the way his stubble felt, scraping against Dean's shoulder. “I want to see you falling apart with need before I sink my cock into you.”

The mental images that Sam was conjuring up in his deep, lust-filled voice, combined with the feel of his body rubbing against Dean's in exactly the right way was too much for Dean, and he came with a choked-off grunt while he clenched hard at Sam, fingers biting into him hard enough to leave bruises.

“Fuck,” swore Sam, giving up on his narrative and just thrusting down even harder. “Fuck, Dean.”

Dean pulled enough of his brain back together to squeeze a hand between their bodies and took a firm grip on Sam's cock, pumping him with hard strokes and trying to keep to the rhythm that Sam had already set. Sam came after only a couple of minutes, gasping indecipherable words out against Dean's shoulder and then biting down hard.

He lay still on Dean for several long moments, then Dean pushed him off and to the side. He really wasn't one for post-coital snuggling, and besides, Sam was really heavy.

Sam gave a worn-out half-laugh. “How far do you think the nearest drug store is?”

“You can find out when you go for coffee in the morning,” said Dean, letting himself relax back into the bed.

“Why do I have to go?” asked Sam in what was almost a whine. Dean tried for a moment to remember if Sam had mentioned being a younger sibling, because he sounded almost exactly like Jo did when she didn't get her own way.

“Cos I said so,” he replied, exactly the same way he would to Jo. “Besides, it's gonna be my ass getting pounded. It's only fair you get up.”

Sam made a grumbly noise but let it go. He draped an arm over Dean's stomach and snuggled down into the pillow. Dean thought about his usual evening dental hygiene and skin cleansing routine, but all his toiletries were still in his apartment, miles away, and he wasn't sure he could really be bothered to get up anyway. He let his eyes slide shut, resting one hand over Sam's.

The noise of the door slamming open and banging off the wall came as sudden as a gunshot. Dean sat bolt upright and Sam jumped out of bed, still completely naked, but neither of them moved fast enough to prevent Mr Adler from marching straight across the room and touching Dean's forehead.

In an instant, everything came rushing back – Mom, Dad, hunting, Hell and all the demons and angels since, but mainly Sam. Sam, his geeky younger brother, who he'd just had sex with. He could tell from the quiet, stricken noise Sam made that all his memories had come back as well, but he couldn't bring himself to turn and look at him.

“What the hell?!” he said incredulously as Mr Adler, or whoever the fuck was possessing his body, stepped back with a satisfied smirk.

“Welcome back,” he said smugly.

“Who are you?” asked Sam, anger filling his voice.

“My name is Zachariah,” he said, spreading his hands slightly as if that should explain everything.

“Oh, man, did we just get touched by...you're an angel, right?” said Dean, rubbing at his head as if that would make it all go away.

“That's correct,” he said, then looked at Sam. “I need to talk to your brother alone for a moment, if you'd excuse us. Maybe you should put on some clothes, as well.”

Dean glanced over at Sam without thinking, and then wished he hadn't. He could tell the exact moment that Sam realised he was stood naked in front of an angel and his brother, who he'd just had sex with, by the way the back of his neck suddenly flushed red, but he didn't move.

“I'm not going anywhere,” he said firmly. “I got whammied as well, I think I get to hear why.”

“He's staying,” added Dean, not keen on being left alone with Zachariah, or on letting Sam wander off somewhere where he might get ambushed by this guy's friends.

“Fine,” said Zachariah, waving one hand negligently. Sam relaxed slightly, and then tugged his pants out of the tangle of clothing on the floor and pulled them on. The part of Dean's brain that could remember what it was like to see Sam through the eyes of a stranger, and to find him damn hot, quietly protested. Dean ignored it.

“So,” said Dean, fixing his eyes on Zachariah when it became clear that Sam wasn't going to bother with a shirt, “who the hell are you and what the hell did you do that for?”

“I'm Castiel's superior,” explained Zachariah. “After the unfortunate situation with Uriel, I decided it was necessary to pop down into one of these smelly things,” he looked down at his body with distaste, and Dean wondered if the guy inside was aware of Zachariah's feelings about his body, “to pay a visit. Get all my ducks in a row.”

“I'm not one of your ducks,” growled Dean, starting to get really pissed now that the initial shock had worn off. He was getting really damn sick of angels just waltzing into his life and messing about with it.

“Starting with your attitude,” added Zachariah.

Sam snorted. “Now you sound like one of Dean's High School teachers,” he said.

“How, exactly, does having us run around like ass-clowns in monkey-suits do jackshit for my attitude?” asked Dean. “I'm even more pissed with you guys now than I was before.”

“We've proved to you that the path you're on is truly in your blood,” said Zachariah. “You're a hunter, Dean. Not because your Dad made you, not because God called you back from Hell, but because it is what you are. And you love it – you'll find your way to it in the dark every single time, and you're miserable without it.” Dean was glaring at Zachariah as if he could set him on fire with just his eyes, wishing like hell that he was wearing some clothes so that he could get out of bed and punch this smartass in the face.

“You're good at this!” continued Zachariah. “You'll be successful. You will stop this.”

Dean hit straight on to that one, after months of being yanked around by angels who couldn't seem to answer a straight question. “Stop what?” he asked. “What exactly is it you want me to do? Be specific!”

“You'll do everything you're destined to do,” said Zachariah, which was no damn help at all. “Come on, Dean – it's time to stand up, and be who you really are.”

Dean glared at him. “Great, thanks,” he said bitterly. “I feel so much better. Now fuck off.”

Zachariah shrugged, and shot a sideways glance at Sam, who was just watching with a slight frown on his face. “We'll talk again later,” he promised Dean, which was clearly code for 'when Sam's not around' and then he winked out of existence as if he'd never been there at all.

“God-damn mother-fucking angels, man,” grumbled Dean.

“Yeah,” said Sam shortly, and just like that, the full weight of what they'd done came crashing down on Dean. He'd had _sex_ with his _brother_. Even with the mind-whammy thing going on, that was still beyond fucked up.

“I'm gonna shower,” Dean said without moving. He was acutely aware of just how naked he was under the sheets, and just how much of Sam's come was slowly drying on his skin.

“Okay,” said Sam, not looking at Dean. He grabbed at his bright yellow shirt and pulled it on frantically. “Guess I'll go get our stuff in from the car.”

Dean stared down at his lap while Sam shoved his shoes on his feet, wondering whether the angels had had any idea this was going to happen. Maybe it was part of a plan to make things even more tense and awkward between the two of them, in which case it was working perfectly.

Sam paused for an instant at the door. “If they managed to prove that you were always meant to be a hunter,” he said quietly, “I guess they also proved that you and me were meant to stick together.”

Dean made a face at the girly sentiment, and tried to think of something to say that wasn't 'there's a massive difference between sticking together and fucking like bunnies'. He really didn't want to think about that right now. “And with my car,” he said. Of all the cars in the Sandover parking lot, it had to mean something that he'd picked the Impala. A thought struck him. “Oh, Jesus, I hotwired her.”

Sam snorted. “I'm sure she'll cope with the indignity,” he said, and headed outside.

Dean escaped into the bathroom to shower as soon as the door was shut behind him. He tried hard to wash away all trace that the sex had ever happened, scrubbing at hickeys and bitemarks with cheap motel soap as if the knowledge that Sam was the possessive, biting kind of guy during sex, and that Dean really, really liked it, could be washed down the drain with the soap suds.

It took him ten minutes to pluck up the courage to leave the bathroom wearing only a towel after he'd finished showering. Sam was sitting on the bed, still in his stupid yellow Sandover shirt, eyes glued to his laptop.

“Seems like Sam Wesson and Dean Smith never existed,” he said. “I can't even work out whose jobs we were doing, or who owns the apartments we were living in.” He glanced up, and whatever he'd been about to say died on his lips as his eyes raked down Dean's body.

Dean pulled his towel even closer around himself, feeling horribly self-conscious and wishing he had managed to persuade Sam to go to a more expensive hotel, one with complimentary bathrobes. He ignored Sam's look as best he could and headed to his bag, which Sam had dumped on the desk, to find some clothes.

“So,” said Sam quietly, “I'm guessing that by tomorrow we're going to be pretending this whole thing never happened.”

“Why put off till tomorrow what you can do today?” replied Dean flippantly, pulling clothes out of his bag and wondering if he should put them on right there or retreat to the bathroom.

“Okay then, I guess we can add this to the list of other things that never happened,” Sam said. He stood up, and Dean found himself tensing up as he came closer. He took hold of Dean's shoulder and Dean braced himself for a punch or, worse, some overly sentimental crap about how it wasn't going to matter and they'd be okay.

Instead, Sam laid a soft, tentative kiss on Dean's lips, then said hoarsely, “Just so you know, I don't regret it, and I don't want to forget it.”

He turned to go into the bathroom while Dean was still staring at him, his mind frozen, and Dean shot his arm out without thinking, grabbing Sam's shirt and keeping him in place. “Sam,” he heard himself say in a low voice, and he wondered what the hell he was doing. Just because it had all felt so right with Sam Wesson didn't mean that it would work the same now they both knew who they were.

Sam was staring at him with wide eyes, and Dean could see him bracing himself. Dean let out a long breath and gave up on trying to find something to say and just went for what he really wanted to do, which was to haul Sam in for another kiss. Sam caught on fast, clinging tightly to Dean's shoulders and opening up to him. Dean shoved aside all the things that were wrong with this and just let himself get lost in the feel of Sam, in the way this moment felt – exactly right in a way nothing had been since he'd got back from Hell. It felt like he was right where he was meant to be.

 


End file.
